


SOS (Rescue me)

by blakefancier



Series: A Perfect World [1]
Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Howard *did* find Steve's body? An AU of my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/9684">Wanting Series</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SOS (Rescue me)

Howard Stark is drunk. Of course, he's almost always drunk these days. He thinks that maybe it might give him the strength to walk away from this endeavor, like his father wants, but it never does.

He doesn't want to abandon Steve.

He closes his eyes and sighs against the sudden pang of memory. He brings his glass to his mouth for another swallow when there's a knock on the door. "Come in," he says, though seeing him drunk will do nothing to help his reputation with the crew.

"Mr. Stark, the captain needs you on the bridge. We think we found something."

"What!" Years later, he'll tell the story differently, but the truth is that he's so drunk that in his excitement he flails around and falls on his ass.

The ensign gives him a pained look. "Please, hurry, sir."

Someone has a cup of coffee for him when he arrives on the bridge. He takes the cup gratefully and drinks half of it in one gulp. "What do we have?"

"Whatever it is, it's massive." The captain pointed it out on the screen.

Howard squints at the screen and makes a puzzled noise. "It's not that far from the surface."

"We think it might be sitting on an ice shelf."

“But not for long. Call Colonel Phillips.” When the captain hesitates, he growls. “Do it!”

*Steve.*

*****

Howard leans against the railing, shivering uncontrollably. He’s not dressed for this weather. He should go inside.

Instead, he leans over and is violently sick. When his stomach is empty, he takes a shaky breath and wipes his mouth on his sweater sleeve.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Mr. Stark. You’ll get hypothermia.”

“You really aren’t suggesting that you’d rather I puke in your pretty little boat, are you?” He smirks at the captain.

“It’s a ship, sir.” The captain’s face is blank.

He knows he shouldn’t take out his frustrations on the man. “My apologies, C-Captain. Your pretty little ship.” He stares out at the water and ice. They’re so close. He’s so close. “Did you fight in the war?”

“No, Mr. Stark, but my son did, in the 101st battalion.” There was pride in the man’s voice, and sadness.

“Did he..” The words stick in his throat.

“He died in Normandy,” the captain whispers.

“I’m sorry.” Howard’s voice is hoarse and his chest aches.

The captain takes a deep breath. “He died a hero.”

Howard knows how little consolation that gives.

*****

“I’m going.” Howard clenches his hands and glares at the general.

“Mr. Stark...”

“No! I found him— I found the plane and I’m going in with the initial team. I—“

“That’s enough, Stark,” Phillips said, cutting him off. “General, maybe it would be a good idea to let him go. I’ve worked with Stark before and he can go like this for hours if he doesn’t get his way. Besides, he should be able to disengage any surprises Schmidt may have left for us. “

He holds his breath as he watches the general’s dislike for him war with expediency.

“Fine. But Mr, Stark, you obey every command my men give you. Do you understand?”

He nods and hurries to go put on his environmental suit.

****

The inside of the plane is pitch black and cavernous: Howard shivers and turns on his flashlight. Steve is here somewhere, alone, and he desperately wants to ditch the soldiers and look for him. Unfortunately, he’s being watched too closely. For now.

Under normal circumstances, he’d find the ship fascinating, but all his thoughts are for Steve. He hangs back slightly, and the men move forward. They’re going in the wrong direction, but they have orders to secure the bombs first. So does he, but he’s never been very good about following directions.

Steve always said he was a trouble-maker.

And, yeah, he is. He turns off his flashlight and when one of the men turns to see what’s going on, he mimes he shakes it and shrugs. Then he smiles, even though he knows the soldier can’t see it.

It’s not that hard to give them the slip; it’s creepy and dark and they’ve got more to be concerned about than just one eccentric pain in the ass.

When they come to another corridor, the soldiers go left and he goes right and spends the next ten minutes hiding behind a fallen beam. Then to make it easier to maneuver, he takes off his environmental suit.

The air is so cold, it makes his lungs hurt. He calculates he’s got about an hour before hypothermia sets in. That’s enough time for him to find Steve and certainly more than enough for the soldiers to realize he’s missing and come looking for him.

He turns on his flashlight and heads towards the nose of the plane.

His teeth are chattering, his chest aches, and his fingers and toes hurt, despite the thick socks and gloves, but all of that goes out the window when the beam of his flashlight hits the red, white, and blue of Steve’s shield.

Howard lets out a small cry and slides-scrambles over to the body, dropping to his knees. He pulls off his gloves and touches Steve’s face.

Steve’s half frozen and the leather of his costume is warped and peeling away.

“I found you,” he says, “I found you.” He bows his head over Steve’s, his breath coming in harsh, agonizing sobs. It’s a long time before he can pull himself together. “I’ll take you home.”

He presses a kiss to Steve’s mouth, then another, and another. If this were some fairytale, Steve’s eyes would have opened.

“You’re still perfect,” he whispers.

And Steve is perfect: his skin is unblemished, there’s no decomposition at all. None at all.

That... that isn’t right. Howard blinks. Even in this freezing environment there should be some breakdown of Steve’s body.

No, no, that... that can’t... He’s gone mad, that has to be it. There’s no way that Erskine’s serum could have…

Howard’s fingers tremble from more than just the cold as he lays them against the pulse point on Steve’s neck. He counts one minute, two minutes, three minutes and just when despair threatens to overwhelm him, he feels it.

No, that could be a fluke or his imagination. He waits for another, then another.

Steve!

He screams for help, screams until his throat hurts and the men come pouring in.

“He’s alive,” he says, triumph strengthening his voice. “Steve’s alive!”


End file.
